A Passion to Perform
A theatre short
Bev Robitai
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Published by:
Copyright 2012 by Bev Robitai
Check out other titles by this author at:
www.bevrobitai.co.nz
These little ‘shorts’ are the result of pressure to perform, as the rules of my writing group say that we have to have a new piece to read every fortnight, and these are what I present to them when I’m ‘between novels’. I’m putting them online to act as a trail of virtual breadcrumbs luring you towards my real books, which aren’t completed quite so quickly. The shorts are where I get to play with different themes, viewpoints and stories that might not fit in a murder mystery novel but they all take place in the same theatre setting and feature many of the same characters.
Take a punt, see if you like the flavour, leave a nice review…then buy a book or two!
A PASSION TO PERFORM
Johnny was a young man who desperately wanted to be on the stage. The idea had consumed him from the first time he’d been taken, at the tender age of four, to see a pantomime. Subsequent visits to the theatre had only reinforced his desire to parade upon the black painted boards, to stand between the rich red velvet curtains, to be lit by golden lights in front of an audience who would be entranced by his every word. He knew, he just knew, that he could win their hearts and inspire wild applause if he was only allowed to perform.
He prepared by appearing in school shows, volunteering to fill any role he could get, but it was the theatre itself that was his true goal. The Regent Theatre, a small but perfect example of Victorian architecture and décor that breathed drama from every part of the building. He would perform to his full potential on the Regent’s stage. No question.
As he grew older he practised speeches alone in his room, rolling the words around his mouth to feel the full flavour of them. Shakespeare, Wilde, Coward – he tried them all and learned whole sections by heart. By the time he reached maturity he could recite the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet perfectly. Shakespeare’s lines flowed from his lips in measured cadence, with rhyme and rhythm lending their weight to the meaning in an expressive yet subtle interpretation.
When Johnny was eighteen the Regent Theatre put on a Shakespeare festival. Auditions were advertised. Johnny believed he was ready. Nervous, yes – but once he stood on that magical stage all would be well. His strong, steady voice would fill the room, the director would be impressed, and the part would be his.
“So, Johnny,” said the director kindly, “what role are you auditioning for today?” He held a pen over his clipboard and looked at Johnny expectantly.
Johnny climbed the three wooden steps onto the stage that he had yearned to stand on for so long. He stood tall and took a deep breath. In front of him the empty auditorium glowed under mellow house lights. Shiny brown seats stretched in serried rows towards the back of the room, and the upper circle made a graceful curve of red, green and gold. His heart soared in delight. This was where he would be great. He began to speak.
“R-r-r-r. R-r-r. R-romeo.” There was an awkward silence. He flushed scarlet in utter dismay.
“Don’t be nervous,” said the director. “Hard thing to do, standing on stage all by yourself. Take your time.” He handed him a page of script. “Read Romeo’s part then, from the top. I’ll do Juliet’s lines. Off you go.”
Johnny glanced down at the words. The balcony scene – perfect! He knew it backwards. He folded the page and tucked it into his pocket. Facing the director, he began with the famous line.
“B-b-b-b-b-b-b… B-b-b-b-b… B-b-but s-s-s-s-s-s… S-s-s-s. S-s-soft, what l-l-l-l… L-l-l-light…”
“All right Johnny, I’m going to stop you there,” said the director quietly. “I don’t think you’re quite ready for the public of Whetford yet. I’m sorry, I can see you’re very keen, but if you’re this nervous at an audition I can’t see you making it through opening night, can you? Perhaps there’s a non-speaking part in the background you could try for, or there’s always plenty of backstage jobs that need doing.” He patted Johnny on the shoulder and sent him off the stage. “Next, please.”
Johnny stumbled blindly down the steps and along the aisle towards the foyer. He pulled the folded page from his pocket and threw it down with a sob. He took several tries to push open the heavy auditorium doors and made his way past the other hopeful performers who were waiting for their chance to shine. Their faces turned towards him, but desperate to escape his humiliation he hurried, head down, towards the door out onto the street.
As he reached it the door opened towards him and he crashed into it at full speed, sending him sprawling backwards with a cry of pain. An elderly man peered round the edge to see what had happened.
“Sorry about that, young fella. Are you all right? Anything broken?” He bent over Johnny checking for obvious injury before offering a hand to pull him to his feet.
“I-I-I-I-I-I’m f-f-f-f-fine,” muttered Johnny. He brushed himself off, wincing a little. “N-n-n-n-nothing’s d-d-d-d-damaged.”
“You were just leaving? At least let me give you a ride home,” said the man, his deep melodious voice kind and gentle. “I feel bad about hurting you and I’d like to help.”
“N-n-n-n-n-no, th-th-th-thanks.” Johnny started to limp away through the door and out onto the street. The old man followed him.
“I said I’d like to help. I didn’t just mean to get you home.”
Something in the man’s tone made Johnny’s feet stop. He turned slowly.
“W-w-w-w-what?”
“I can help you with…” he gestured towards his mouth and throat, “your problem. If you’ll let me.”
Johnny’s face closed. He knew it was pointless. His parents had already sent him to every speech therapist in town and they were all just a bunch of useless quacks. Nothing they suggested had worked.
“No thanks,” he sang. “I’ve tried all the cures.” He was damned if he was going to sing every utterance for the rest of his life. He’d been sure that being on the theatre stage would make the difference but since that had failed there was clearly no hope.
“Ah, you’ve seen a therapist then. Didn’t help?”
Johnny held up five fingers and shook his head.
“You’ve seen five therapists?” The old man’s eyes twinkled. “You must be a hopeless case then.”
Johnny glared at him. One more remark like that and he’d punch the old guy’s lights out, even if he was a senior citizen. He glanced back at the façade of the Regent Theatre and closed his eyes briefly. He walked away.
“You’re giving up?” called the old man. “Not game to give it a try? What have you got to lose?”
“P-p-p-pride!” yelled Johnny. “P-p-p-p-peace of m-m-mind! W-w-why don’t you just f-f-f-f-f…”
“Hey! There’s no need for that. You behave yourself, young man.” The old guy held out a business card then slid it into Johnny’s pocket when he refused to take it. “Get in touch when you’re ready. I know I can help you. It will take a bit of time and hard work but you will be able to talk without stuttering, I promise.”
It took a week for Johnny’s curiosity to overcome his reluctance. Could this guy really help him? If talking was possible, then perhaps, one day, performing on stage would be possible too. Was it worth the inevitable disappointment to try pursuing his dreams one more time? He wrestled with the idea for a few more days then sent an email suggesting a meeting.
An invitation came in return. ‘Come to my studio on Wednesday evening. Allow an hour. See you then.’
The old man opened the door and gave Johnny a friendly smile. “I’m so glad you could come, John. It’s very brave of you. But don’t worry, e
verything will be fine.” He showed Johnny into a large room that looked like a dance studio, with mirrors on one wall and wooden bars against the others. There were two chairs at one end of the room.
“Come and sit here John. We’re going to read something aloud together.”
Johnny’s shoulders slumped. Reading aloud had been his nightmare at school. In the end his teachers had stopped asking him as any benefit was far outweighed by the distress and disruption it caused. He sighed and sat down. Another quack. How soon could he leave?
“Here’s your copy, I have mine. Ready? From the top then.” The old man started to read, his deep voice powerful in the enclosed room. Johnny opened his mouth and prepared to struggle through the page just to get out of there. But as he followed the words and read them aloud, all he could hear was the old man’s voice and his own speech seemed to flow quite smoothly. He looked up, startled, and found kindly blue eyes looking at him in amusement.
“That wasn’t what you expected, was it? Keep going to the end of the page.”
Their voices combined to read the rest of the piece perfectly.
Johnny sat still, hardly daring to breathe. He found himself scrubbing at his eyes and sniffing. Was that it? Was he cured?
“H-h-h-h-how d-d-did…” he stopped. His face fell.
“Ah, don’t think you change the habits of a lifetime that easily, young John. There’s a lot more work ahead of you. But now do you believe I can help you?”
Johnny nodded. This time there was a glimmer of hope. This guy might be different. He’d give it a go.
Over the next few weeks he learned new exercises to open his mouth and strengthen his jaw. He repeated tongue-twisters over and over to gain muscle control. And most importantly, he learned to speak in a different voice.
“Put your fingers against your throat,” said the old man. “Now hum. Go lower until you can feel the strongest vibration. It should be about an octave lower than your normal speaking voice. Try speaking in that tone.”
Johnny looked doubtful but opened his mouth and said his name in a voice that sounded foreign to his ears. There was no trace of a stutter.
“Seriously?” he said, struggling to keep his voice as deep as possible. “How does that work?”
The old man smiled. “You have a stuttering voice that your brain recognises. If you use that voice you will always stutter as long as your brain can hear you speak. If you change your voice by making it deeper, your brain doesn’t add in the stutter. You can have a new voice that’s stutter-free.”
“Permanently? If I use this new voice I can trust it?” Johnny’s mind was racing.
“You can do anything you want with it.”
Joy surged in Johnny’s heart as his lost ambitions swam back into focus. “How can I ever thank you?” he asked.
“Go back to the theatre. Audition for the role of your dreams and win,” said the old man. “And let me know the date of your opening night.”
A year later Johnny’s rich voice filled the Regent Theatre’s auditorium, holding the audience spellbound.
“To be, or not to be, that is the question…”
At the final curtain his bow was met with ecstatic applause, and nobody cheered louder than the old man sitting in the front row.
Afterwards, Johnny bought him a drink at the foyer bar. “Thank you so much for working with me – I would never have made it without you. I never asked you, but how did you come up with your programme for helping stutterers?”
The old man smiled a little sadly and spoke in a light voice that Johnny hadn’t heard before. “I-I-I-I j-j-just t-t-t-t-tried t-t-to f-f-f-find a c-c-cure t-t-t-that w-w-w-worked. It t-t-took m-m-me quite a w-w-while.”
The End
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Theatre Mystery Book One - Murder in the Second Row https://tinyurl.com/Murder2ndRowSmash
Theatre Mystery Book Two - Body on the Stage https://tinyurl.com/BodyonStageSmash